Page 7 of The Dagger and the Flame
She collapsed on a bench in the square, her head falling like she was in prayer. Ransom leaned against the clock tower on top of the Marlowe to study her. She was a short, fine-boned creature, with large eyes and long hair the colour of summer wheat. She was wearing a dark coat that reached to her knees, and scuffed boots, laced up the middle.
For a long time, she was still.
The dog yipped and darted around her feet, trying to rouse her from her trance. The girl was unmoved. Defeated by what she had glimpsed out in the plains, or lost in the maze of herown terror. Or perhaps she was simply praying to Saint Maud of Lost Hope.
Whatever she was doing, it irritated him.
‘Get up,’ he muttered. ‘Get up and run.’
Let me chase you.
She raised her head, as if she had heard him. She was fiddling with something around her neck, her mouth twisting nervously. She reminded Ransom of the doll his sister used to play with. Dainty, breakable. An easy mark.
Butwhywas she a mark at all?
The dog growled. Right at him.
Shit.Ransom ducked behind the clock tower. If the mutt had spied him, his Shade must be wearing off. He reached into his pocket and removed a glass vial, the black dust inside shimmering faintly as he unstopped it. He downed it in one go, his eyes watering at the sulphuric burn. His throat spasmed as he fought the urge to retch. It never got easier. Some day, when his luck ran out and the nightguards finally got brave enough to pick him up, the scientists at the Appoline would cut open his body to find all his organs grey and shrivelled. Rotted through with Shade. A hollow space where his heart had once been.
That was the fate of every Dagger, sooner or later.
The fine powder worked its way down Ransom’s gullet. He closed his eyes, weathering the full-body shiver as shadows unfurled inside him, flooding his veins, and lacing the bones in his ribcage. He tasted the promise of death on his lips as he flexed his fingers. The shadow-marks across his hands began to move, darting like fish in a pond. When his eyes burned silver, he knew it was done. The darkness was his to command.
He was seized by a familiar rush of adrenaline. Before the gloom came the heady rush of power. And the power of Shade was intoxicating. Night fell away like smoke clearing in the breeze until he could see as far north as the Aurore and count every merchant vessel bobbing down south in the harbour.
When Ransom stepped out from behind the clock tower, the girl was gone. Her footsteps echoed in the silence. She was heading east, towards the Hollows. He stalked to the edge of the Marlowe and pulled a shadow from the next building. He caught it like a rope, swinging himself down to the ground.
His landing was clean, soundless. He grinned, sweeping his hair back. The chase was his favourite part of a job. It turned Fantome into his own personal playground, every building a ladder, every shadow a slide.
But this one would take longer than most. Dufort had warned him not to kill tonight.
Watch her, first. I want to know where she goes. What she does.
Ransom let himself enjoy the chase as she led him deeper into the Hollows. Hell, he even enjoyed it when she flung a flowerpot at him. Terrible aim. Good survival instincts. The best way to evade a Dagger was to hide behind a Cloak. And he was impressed by how quickly she found her way to House Armand. The mutt must be a tracker.
Not that it mattered. It would take more than the pity of Madame Mercure to protect the girl now. Dufort had marked her. It was only a matter of time before he gave the final order.
Satisfied with what he had gleaned, Ransom turned for the long walk home. Shadows squirmed under his skin, his fingers itching tokill, kill, kill.
He dug them into his pockets, ignoring the familiar pull. In an hour or two, he’d be himself again. Magic was a game of restraint. To consume it at all was to place one foot in hell. Something the Cloaks never dared to do. There was nothing more lethal than swallowing too much Shade, or doing it too fast. Those who got drunk on their own power risked turning on their friends or themselves just to satisfy that itch:kill, kill, kill.
Ransom was so lost in thought he hardly noticed the man lunging from a nearby alley. His eyes were wild, his skin red and scoured. He reeked of alcohol and sweat and was brandishing a peeling knife. ‘Hey, rich prick. Empty your—’ The threat died in his throat when he glimpsed the silver rings in Ransom’s eyes.
Big mistake.
Adrenaline surged through Ransom’s body. His hand shot out, catching the man by the throat. The drunkard screamed as shadows crawled up his neck, spreading their poison. His eyes rolled, turning black.
A kill from a Dagger takes ten heartbeats.
Ransom dropped the man after eight.
He collapsed in a puddle, his hands at his throat. ‘Mercy…’ he gasped out. ‘Mercy.’
Ransom’s fingers twitched as he stared down at him. ‘Not mercy,’ he said, in a low growl. ‘I don’t kill for free.’
The man whimpered.
Rankled by a familiar prickle of revulsion, Ransom turned on his heel and left the Hollows behind him.Better to be feared than to fear, he reminded himself. Gaspard Dufort had toldhim that the day he took him in. Ransom had spent the first ten years of his life living in terror. He would kill a thousand times just to keep from going back to that place.
